The room erupted. It wasn’t just a few chuckles. It was a roar of laughter. A hundred men, fueled by adrenaline and pack mentality, jeering at the woman standing alone by the water cooler. Mark winked at me, a cruel, dismissive gesture.

“Go on now,” he said, waving his hand as if shooing a fly. “Maybe you can grab us some fresh coffee on your way out. This pot is empty.”

The heat rose in my neck. My heart hammered against my ribs, a physical reaction to the public flaying. I felt the weight of their eyes, the dismissal, the sheer injustice of it. My fingers curled inward, nails digging into my palms inside my pockets. I wanted to scream. I wanted to list my flight hours. I wanted to break his nose.

But I didn’t.

I took a breath, slow and deep, expanding my diaphragm just like I did before a high‑G turn. I closed my mind to the noise. I remembered the worn pages of my Bible, the verse I had highlighted in yellow marker years ago, back when I first started flight school and realized how hard this road would be.

Proverbs 12:16.